


Strike a Pose

by capsicleonyourleft



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Captain America - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6191842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High-society functions leave a sour taste in Clark’s mouth. Thankfully, Steve is there to keep him company, and draw their billionaire boyfriends’ attention back where it belongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strike a Pose

The cheap polyester of his suit tugs uncomfortably at his skin as he examines the opulent room, eyes sweeping over the sharply-dressed guests in search of familiar faces. He fiddles with the bow tie around his neck, feeling ridiculous, though Bruce had assured him it’s the proper attire. No one is paying much attention to him, of course, but he still feels like a little boy from Kansas who’s trespassed where he doesn’t belong. The feeling is not an alien one.

Really, he could afford to leave at this point. He’s got detailed notes on the speeches that were made and quotes from Lucius Fox and Virginia Potts—enough material to write a satisfactory if dull piece that will remind Perry there’s a very good reason it’s usually Cat who covers these events. Yet, here he still is, doing his best to blend with the wall, unable to tear his eyes away from the men who are only feet away but may as well be on a different continent for all the distance between them.

“Clark,” a familiar voice calls next to him, pitched low. It’s not often that someone manages to catch him by surprise. “You might want to watch your grip before you draw attention to yourself.”

He glances down at the champagne flute in his hand, held loosely between two fingers. He’d forgotten it was even there, and a thin crack has began to form along the glass. He puts it down on a nearby table, not trusting his hands to obey him, and turns his head to risk a glance at Steve.

It’s the first he’s seen of him this evening, what with the fact everyone is eager to commandeer Captain America’s time and company at these events, and the sight of him leaves Clark breathless. In his military dress and with his hair perfectly coiffed, Steve looks…. well, ravishing is the word that comes to mind. Their eyes lock for a brief moment, a hint of a smile tugging at Steve’s lips.

Comforted by his presence, Clark fixes his gaze back across the room, where Bruce and Tony are standing with a group of associates. Bruce has a drink in each hand, liquid sloshing over the side of the glass as he gesticulates in an exaggerated manner, offering up salacious winks. It’s clear he’s doing everything he can to assure tomorrow’s headlines will focus on Bruce Wayne’s outrageous and incorrigible behaviour rather than his charitable contributions. Clark knows for a fact he’s had exactly one sip of champagne the entire evening, but for all intents and purposes, Bruce Wayne appears completely smashed. It’s an act Bruce has perfected, one that’s integral to the plausibility of his cover and the safety of his family, but witnessing it first-hand still always leaves Clark feeling unsettled.

Tony is standing a few feet away, engaged in a conversation with a man Clark doesn’t recognize. He’s wearing the patented Stark grin, the one he’s practiced his entire life, as much a shield as his suit of armour. It pulls tightly at the corners of his mouth, sharp and terse, never reaching his eyes. On the covers of glamorous magazines, it appears impervious, glossy and pearly-white. In reality, it’s the smile of a man who is used to wielding charm as a weapon, who’s used to offering up too much of himself with too little in return. Most of all, it’s strikingly different than his genuine smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and scrunches up his nose; the one Clark loves being responsible for and seeing light up Tony’s face.

The worst part of it, more than the charade itself, is the fact that Clark is forced to observe from the periphery. After all, other than for interviews, there aren’t many reasons for mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent to be spending time with billionaire business tycoons or superheroes. His act might not be as extravagant, but he’s got his own cover to protect; his entire civilian life is a calculated effort to draw the least possible amount of attention to himself.

Unfortunately, being in a relationship with three superheroes whose civilian identities are well-known public figures isn’t very conducive to keeping a low profile. Love, as Ma is so fond of pointing out, is never the product of convenience.

Clark waits while a woman passes by them, making sure no one else is within earshot before he speaks. “I hate this,” he admits, unable to keep the misery out of his voice. Trusting that the meaning behind his words is understood, there’s no real need to elaborate. He may be a public figure, but Steve didn’t have the lifetime Bruce and Tony had to get used to the limelight and the pretence, and Clark knows these high-society functions leave him every bit as uneasy and drained.

“There’s a private bathroom on the third level, in the northeast corner. Meet me there,” is how Steve responds to the statement. For a moment, Clark is convinced he must have misheard, but then Steve is walking away with intent, his steps wide and determined. A few of the guests turn to look as he leaves the room, curious, but no one dares follow.

Pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, Clark spares a last glance at the scene on the other side of the room, though it’s much the same. Briefly, his eyes lock with Tony’s, who gives him a private quirk of his lips before refocusing his attention on his conversational partner. Bruce has his back turned to him and hasn’t so much as looked his way the entire evening, but Clark knows he’s got the entire room mapped out, that Bruce is aware of his whereabouts at all times and has at least four exit strategies should an emergency occur.

Judging that a sufficient amount of time has passed in order for them to avoid any suspicion, Clark goes in search of Steve.

The bathroom on the third floor, it turns out, is bigger than Clark’s entire crammy apartment back in Metropolis. There’s even a black couch tucked away at the corner of the room, and he can’t help but laugh at how absolutely ridiculous that is. Steve is leaning his back against the sink, hands gripping the marble, legs stretched out in front of him with the ankles crossed. The moment the door clicks shut, Steve is on him, crowding him up against it, the knob digging into Clark’s back. He has the good sense to turn the lock.

Steve cups his face, fingers gentle as they trace the curve of his cheekbones and jaw. The cologne he’s wearing is one of Tony’s, Clark realizes, notes of bergamot and jasmine filling the air. Underneath it, he can detect a scent that’s distinctly Tony, can almost make out the shape of his mouth against Steve’s skin. They must have gotten handsy before making it to tonight’s event, and the thought of it—the evidence of it on Steve’s body—causes his cock to stir in his pants.

Steve’s voice, urgent and longing, brings him back to the present. “Clark,” he says,  studying Clark’s face, drinking his fill.

Needing to touch him in return, Clark brings his hand to Steve’s collar, stroking his throat. “I’m right here,” he says before capturing Steve’s mouth with his own. A shiver runs up his spine when Steve’s tongue teases the bow of his mouth, teeth closing around his upper lip.

Large hands find their way to his shoulders, travelling down the curve of his back to work their way underneath Clark’s suit jacket. For a moment, Steve simply holds him, a content sigh escaping his lips. “Missed you tonight,” he says into Clark’s neck, nuzzling the skin before biting down on his clavicle.

Clark closes his eyes to process the rush of emotion that cycles through his body, taking a shaky breath. “You, too,” he responds when he finds his voice, looking down at where his hand is splayed over Steve’s heart. They don’t exactly have a rule against it, but it still feels strange to share this intimacy without Tony and Bruce present, and the sense of longing sits heavy on his sternum.

Reaching for the hand Clark’s got on his flank, Steve brings it to his mouth, lips lingering as he places a kiss on the centre of his palm. “I hate this, too,” he says, echoing Clark’s earlier words. “Hate not having their attention, hate having to share them with a public who hasn’t the slightest clue who they really are. Hate how necessary the charade is.” He takes a step back, and Clark wants to protest the sudden distance. “Thankfully, I’ve got some ideas about how we can grab their attention.”

In one fluid motion, Steve sinks down to his knees, effortless and graceful. Before Clark’s brain can catch up with the sudden shift in events, Steve already has his pants unzipped and unbuckled, sending them pooling at his feet. Once Steve Rogers has settled on a plan of attack, there’s no talking him out of it. Not that Clark is feeling particularly inclined to do so.

When Steve peels off his underwear, it’s all he can do not to squirm; he’d been feeling touch-starved and lonely the entire evening, and Steve’s earlier touches have left him half-hard.  Steve’s hand inches its way up his inner thigh, thumb rubbing teasing circles against the sensitive skin; before long, he replaces his hand with his mouth, teeth grazing along the meaty part as he works his way up, up, up. He flattens his tongue to lick into the crease where leg and pelvis meet, alternating between small, tantalizing brushes and broad, firm strokes. The sound it manages to drag out of Clark can only be described as a whine.

When Clark is fully erect, Steve pulls off of him, picking up his pants to rummage through the pockets.

“I didn’t bring any lube, if that’s what—” Clark starts, watching through half-lidded eyes as Steve pulls his phone out instead. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me,” Steve says with a wink, wrapping his other hand around Clark’s cock and taking him back in his mouth. The wet, tight heat causes Clark’s eyes to roll back, skull thumping loudly against the door as he throws his head back. Distantly, he picks up on the click of a camera shutter.

When he opens his eyes, Steve is smirking around his cock. There’s a dangerous glint in his eye as he presses the phone into Clark’s hand. With some difficulty, Clark musters the will to look away from the sight of Steve on his knees and down onto the phone screen.

Steve had sent a picture message to the group chat between the four of them. _Scored an exclusive with Captain America_ , reads the caption. The picture is of the lower half of Steve’s face, lips stretched obscenely around the head of Clark’s cock, glistening with spit.

“ _Oh, my God_ ,” Clark pants, knees suddenly weak, on the verge of coming his brains out. As if reading his mind, Steve squeezes his fingers around the base of his erection, holding him off.

Just as Clark is about to stash his phone away and refocus, it vibrates in his hand. A message from Bruce.

_Where are you._

Not a question, but a command. Clark thrills at the idea, imagining all the relaxation techniques Bruce likely had to employ to keep up appearances when he received the picture. With a smirk and shaking fingers—Steve hasn’t pulled off his cock—Clark types up a reply.

_You’re not the world’s greatest detective for nothing, B._

That out of the way, he tucks the phone inside his suit jacket. “You are a menace, Steve Rogers,” he says affectionately, threading his fingers through Steve’s hair.

Steve preens at the praise, tightening the seal of his lips and sucking with intent. His other hand now free, he reaches to fondle Clark’s balls, rubbing his thumb against the perineum.

“You’re so good at this,” Clark says, knowing how much Steve loves to hear it. He caresses Steve’s jaw, feeling the swell of his cheek around his cock. “You take it so well. It’s beautiful.”

Steve rewards him by humming around his length, running his tongue along the thick vein on the underside. Clark tightens his grip on his hair and begins thrusting in earnest, fucking Steve’s gorgeous mouth. The reaction is immediate: Steve relaxes his throat and expertly swallows around his girth, moaning each time Clark pulls out and pushes back in, hungry for it.  

“Steve, _Steve_ ,” he cries out as his hips lose all coordination, a telltale warmth beginning to spread in his stomach. He fights to keep his eyes open, wanting to keep them trained on Steve, but it’s a battle he soon loses as his vision begins to swim and fireworks explode behind his eyelids. A light brush of Steve’s finger around his entrance is all it takes for Clark to go off, shaking his way through an orgasm, rattling the door they’re pressed up against. All of his systems feel fried, and he struggles to regulate his breathing as he comes down from the high.

Steve releases him from his mouth with a pop, a thread of spittle mixed with come running from Clark’s cock to his mouth, dribbling down his chin. Clark reaches to trace Steve’s puffy lower lip, pulling and dragging it with his thumb. Steve sucks it into his mouth and gives it a playful bite before getting off his knees and stretching to his full height. With a boyish smile, he lands a sweet kiss on the tip of Clark’s nose, as if he hadn’t just sucked his brain out through his dick.

Clark is tucking in his shirt in front of the mirror, trying to make himself presentable when he hears the patter of footsteps down the hall, the accompanying squeak of fine Italian leather. He smiles as he finishes buckling his belt, listening for the click of the lock as it gets picked with expert fingers.

When he walks through the door, Bruce’s expression is calm and passive, his heartbeat infuriatingly even. It would almost be disappointing, if Clark weren’t so good at reading the signs that belie the act; it’s in the way his gait is just a tad stiffer and more hurried, in the way he’s holding his hand close to his body, the pinky slightly curled. Flames are licking behind the blue of his eyes, dangerously close to obliterating his carefully maintained self-control.

His focus honed in on Steve, Bruce pounces, crowding him up until his knees hit the back of the couch. Bruce climbs in his lap, all sharp knees and impatience, licking into Steve’s mouth like he’s trying to devour him. Steve yields immediately, his hands coming up to Bruce’s ass to hold him in place. They bite each other’s lips and moan into the kiss, frantic and hungry. It occurs to Clark that their kiss is about sharing the taste of him, swapping the flavour of his come, and he _whimpers_. Bruce breaks the kiss to mouth along Steve’s neck, licking up a small dribble of come that landed in the corner of his jaw.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clark moans, feeling like his brain is in very serious danger of melting. It’s that moment that the door opens, catching Clark off guard for the second time this evening.

“I’ll have you know,” Tony announces as he walks in, casting an appreciative look towards Steve and Bruce before focusing on Clark, his gaze accusatory, “That I just spilled sparkling cider all over Mr. Miller’s suit thanks to your little stunt.”

“Good. He was flirting with you the entire evening,” says Clark, folding his arms over his chest. “Besides, don’t look at me. You’ve got the Man with the Plan to thank for that one.”

Tony turns his glare on Steve, who detaches himself from Bruce’s mouth long enough to respond with a truly stunning and wholly unrepentant grin. It quickly turns into a frown when Bruce untangles himself from his lap and walks towards the centre of the room.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he announces, voice close to a growl. “You two,” he points to Clark and Steve, “Are going to head back to the tower. Tony and I will make our excuses in the next half hour.” With that, he straightens his tie and turns to leave, the very picture of collected composure once more. “Oh,” he adds with a dark glare over his shoulder, “And you better not get started without me, this time, or you’ll have some explaining to do.”

Tony visibly shudders as he stares after him, body vibrating with arousal. “We’re _definitely_ getting started without him, right?”

Clark smirks.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read it on Tumblr](http://capsicleonyourleft.tumblr.com/post/140602140036/ot4-fic)


End file.
